


Moonlight

by J_L_Nevole (Brambleshadow_of_WindClan)



Series: Moonlight [1]
Category: Def Leppard
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, M/M, Pack Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 00:30:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brambleshadow_of_WindClan/pseuds/J_L_Nevole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The silver moonlight tracked him even backstage, trapping him in its glow, and Joe knew he had to either give in or let the burning inside consume him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Burn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/346204) by [ObsidianJade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianJade/pseuds/ObsidianJade). 
  * Inspired by [The Act of Submission](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/13402) by AddictedtoPuzzles. 



> DISCLAIMER: Joe Elliott, Rick Savage, et. al., are real people and property of themselves. No harm is intended or implied and no profit is made. I just have a wild imagination and am currently suffering from an intense werewolf and Def Leppard fetish.

Pale moonlight streamed through the windows of yet another hotel on another city on the band’s latest tour. Outside, the moon gleamed full and bright, barely cresting the craggy outline of the Sangre de Christo Mountain Range. Everybody in the city of Colorado Springs—and the members of British hard rock band Def Leppard—were asleep, save for one.

Joe’s green eyes snapped open; for a second they glowed yellow-green in the darkness before returning to their normal shade. He was so, so hot . . . all thanks to the full moon and the bite he’d been given years ago. His eyes quickly scanned the room, flicking over the sleeping forms of Rick, Sav, Phil, and Steve, before fire shot through him. He bit his lip hard to keep from groaning, drew blood, and instantly rolled out of bed. Joe landed on all fours, hard, and the pain helped urge on what he’d been trying to fight.

His bones burned white-hot as they cracked and reformed. Muscles turned to mush, then returned in harder, more powerful designs. Coarse hair—fur—wormed its way through the pores in his skin; nails darkened and lengthened to form claws even as his hands became paws. Inside his mouth, his teeth grew longer, sharper, blood emerging from gums as his jaws became part of a powerful muzzle. Transformation complete, he glanced again around the room with phosphorescent, sickly green eyes—eyes that were still human whichever form he was forced to take. Suddenly nothing in the room mattered to him anymore, not even his bandmates, his adopted pack. All he owned was the night world and everything in it. Maybe that was the wolf talking, but right then it was true.

Unfortunately, they were in the hotel penthouse and all the windows were shut. Since he was in lupine form at the moment, Joe had no way of opening the window. A soft, frustrated growl escaped him as he paced the length of the wall, his movements short and tense. If anyone had been watching, he looked like he might explode at any moment.

One of his bandmates, maybe Steve or Phil, rolled over in sleep, grumbling, and Joe froze. When one of the Terror Twins suddenly sat straight up, the golden wolf dove for cover and curled up in a ball, trying to make himself as small as possible. It would have been funny if the situation hadn’t been so serious. After a few tense moments, Steve went back to sleep.

Joe sighed and draped his tail over his nose. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to get much sleep tonight. Then again, he never did when it was the night of the full moon. None of his kind did.

*

Sav glanced up from raiding the fridge the next morning to see a sleepy-looking Joe pad into the kitchen. The bass guitarist greeted, “Hey there, mate. Didn’t sleep well, huh?”

“No. Full moon,” was all the band’s singer said in response. Sav just nodded and returned to hunting for breakfast. Out of everyone else in Def Leppard, he was the only one who knew about Joe’s lycanthropy, even if he’d found out about it completely by accident. One night he’d been unable to sleep, had gone in search of water, and somehow found himself opening the door to Joe’s room and finding him in mid-transformation—a sight he’d been sure would give him nightmares for the rest of his life. This was back when Pete Willis had been one of their guitarists while they were making Pyromania in ’82. It was now 1987.

“Where’re Rick and the Terror Twins?” Joe asked, jerking Sav out of his recollections. The lupine had come closer and was now leaning against the counter, his green gaze raking over the contents of the small refrigerator.

“I think Rick’s still asleep, and I have no idea where Steve or Phil are at the moment.” Finding nothing of interest, he closed the fridge. “How rough was it?”

There was silence for a long moment. Finally Joe replied, “Well, the window was shut so I couldn’t get out, but considering we’re so high up anyway . . .” He shrugged, and a smile twitched at his mouth as he added, “I had to dive for cover when Steve shot straight up. Somehow I ended up behind the couch.”

At the mental image of a large blond werewolf ducking behind a leather sofa, Sav had to fight hard not to laugh. He couldn’t help chuckling a little and Joe, with his sensitive lupine hearing, heard it and scowled. “At least you think it’s funny.”

“So do you, mate. That’s cos it is funny.” Sav shot his bandmate a grin. The grin faded as a more serious thought occurred to him. “So, how is it, really?”

Joe sighed, and his eyes flared yellow for a moment. “Sav . . .,” he said, a warning note in his voice. “You’ve known about this for five years. And I’m not giving you the bite, so forget that idea.”

“Wouldn’t think of it,” the bass guitarist said smoothly. Then, in a quieter voice: “Pete found out, too. Remember?”

The muscles tightened in Joe’s jaw, and Sav noticed that the lead singer’s nails had darkened and lengthened and were now digging into the countertop. That gave Sav his answer.

Back then was the first time he’d seen the some of the extent of Joe’s wolf powers, without him shifting into his werewolf form. Pete, his courage bolstered by alcohol, had threatened to tell the truth about what Joe really was to the rest of Def Leppard, the media, everyone. Joe’s eyes went phosphorescent, canines turned into fangs, and he’d grabbed the rhythm guitarist by his shirt collar and slammed him up against the nearest wall, his claws tearing through the fabric in Pete’s shirt, a low growl rumbling from his throat. Sav hadn’t been able to hear what words were exchanged, but when the lycanthrope stepped back, Pete’s face was blank and eyes were wide with terror. He’d left the next day, and since there were no werewolf stories in the tabloids, both Joe and Sav assumed the secret was safe.

When he’d asked Joe about it later, about why Pete’s reaction was the way it was, Joe had simply replied, “I’m the alpha. It’s my responsibility to look out for the pack.”

“Pack?”

“Us. The band.”

“Oh.” That was the first he’d heard of any werewolf pack mentality, but it also made sense as to why they wouldn’t let Rick leave the band when he’d lost his arm in the car wreck a few years ago. Sav wouldn’t say Allen was the band’s pet, but he was their friend—and packmate, in Joe’s mind—and none of them turned their backs on friends.

Gradually the tension in Joe’s face and body drained away and he relaxed. Sav, meanwhile, had finally found a box of cereal and was starting to open it. The crinkling of the plastic bag inside the cardboard box alerted Joe to the fact there was food afoot and he swung his head in Sav’s direction, stomach growling. Even without super-sharp senses, the bass guitarist could hear it. He ignored Joe’s piercing green glare as he dug out a handful and popped it in his mouth.

“Sav . . .” Joe’s voice was a low growl. “Hand over the box.”

He pretended to think it over, then smirked. “No.”

This time it was a wordless snarl, and Sav had to dart out of range. “Wow, you’re not a morning person, are you?” he teased.

“I’m always cranky the morning after a full moon; you know that.” Joe snatched for the box again, only to be treated to the sight of Sav’s retreating figure, his mane of curly brown hair flying every which way. He growled softly with irritation before giving chase. It took a couple minutes, but after a flying leap over one of the couches, he had Sav pinned underneath him and they were wrestling for control of the cereal.

Steve suddenly came walking in, his blond hair wet, freshly clothed, and pulled up short when he saw Sav writhing on the floor underneath Joe. He cleared his throat and said, “Hey, guys take it somewhere else, huh?”

Both men froze and glanced up, Joe’s eyes glowing sky-blue again and fangs bared before he realized it. Suddenly realizing the awkwardness of the situation and what it must look like to Steve, he abruptly scrambled off Sav and helped him up. To one half of the Terror Twins he said, “It’s not what it looks like.” Then he glared at Sav. “Are you going to give me the cereal now?”

A smile twitched at Steve’s mouth before he gave a short laugh. Joe had to hand it to the guy: he had a great sense of humor.

Sav grumbled good-naturedly and handed over the box, but not before Joe saw the broad smirk. He gave a warning growl, not caring about letting some of the wolf come through, and started heading for the kitchenette to look for a bowl.

“Well, that was . . . interesting,” he heard Steve comment to Sav. “All that over a bloody cereal box?”

Joe sensed rather than saw Sav shrug. He didn’t care; his mouth had flooded with saliva at the word “bloody”. Since the moon remained full for two more days, it was easier for his wolf to take control, even though the moon was a constant influence on lupines all the time—and he could bring on the change whenever he wanted. At last he clamped down on his werewolf instincts in time to hear Sav’s reply of, “Yeah, well, he’s always irritable the morning after a full moon. And I’m pretty sure I started it.”

“You did,” Joe called from the kitchenette. He’d finally found a paper bowl and spoon and was now going for the milk jug. “And stop smiling.” When he came back out and set breakfast down on the table, he noticed how abruptly their faces had become neutral. Only slightly amused, he asked Steve, “Where are the others?”

“Getting dressed, I think,” Clark replied. “The noise the two of you were making sure woke them up. What time is it, anyway?”

Joe glanced at his wristwatch. “Six-thirty.”

“We’re not performing until what, six? Seven?”

“Seven,” said Phil as he entered the room. Rick was right behind him. “In the evening.”

Joe opened his mouth like he was about to swear loudly and snapped it shut when the others stared at him. Sav would know what was troubling him, of course, but Rick, Phil, and Steve were in the dark about his lycanthropic condition. Ah, well. He’d made it through evening concerts on full moon nights before. He could handle tonight if he just tightened control on his lupine instincts.

*

The sun had just set and the full moon was making itself visible in the night sky. Joe glanced at it nervously before sweeping his gaze over the crowd of fans, most of them teenage girls. After they’d released Hysteria and, subsequently, “Pour Some Sugar on Me” as a single, it seemed like more of their audience had become that of the young female variety. They’d been playing for maybe an hour already, after Bon Jovi opened for them (and yes, they kicked Jon’s tail), and Def Leppard’s resident werewolf—as well as Sav and the Terror Twins—were hot, sticky, and sweaty, mostly from running around the stage. In Joe’s case, some of it might be from paranormal causes, but right now he was refusing to think about that.

During the hour-long rehearsal and setting-up phase, they had gone over the set list (“Stagefright”, “Rock! Rock! (Till You Drop)”, “Love Bites”, “Another Hit ‘N’ Run”, “Women”, “Rocket”, “Foolin’”, “Too Late For Love”, etc. etc.), and behind him, Joe heard Steve, Rick, Phil and Sav launch into “Animal”. This time, the lyrics had a ring of truth: The animal inside Joe was itching for release. He couldn’t give in to the wolf, not while he was onstage. Aside from the fact the media would have a field day, he had no idea how Phil, Rick and Steve would react. Sav was totally cool with it, but there was no way of knowing for sure.

 As he sang, “Oh! Huh! Cry wolf baby, cry tough. Gonna hunt you like an, uh uh, animal” with the others on backing vocals, Joe could feel the  wolf shadow pricking at the back of his mind. He knew he was losing control when he looked in Sav’s direction and the bass player hissed softly, “Your eyes” and he felt his canines growing sharp in his mouth, but he was suddenly finding it hard to push back the wolf. And no matter where he went onstage, the moonlight seemed to follow him.

Somehow he made it through the last two songs in their set, “Pour Some Sugar on Me” and “Bringin’ on the Heartbreak”, and the usual parting words. Then he was off that stage, aware all the while of the moon’s glow. It seemed to mock him as he jogged backstage, hearing the distant footfalls of his bandmates—packmates—as they followed from a few yards away. The silver moonlight tracked him even backstage, trapping him in its glow, and Joe knew he had to either give in or let the burning inside consume him. His breathing had become harsh, labored, and again he felt the shadow of his wolf in his mind, pushing, trying to take over.

A hand came down on his shoulder as a voice asked, “Joe, you okay, mate?”

Startled, he growled and whipped around, fangs bared, eyes spinning with yellow. Sav jumped backward to avoid having his hand turned into a hamburger patty. The bassist answered his own question, “Guess not.” Concern swiftly etched itself onto his face. “You’re close to changing, aren’t you?”

Unable to speak, Joe nodded. As if from far away he could hear Steve, Phil, and Rick’s footsteps as they walked closer. At the thought of fresh meat, saliva flooded his mouth and in the back of his throat he could taste the metallic tang of blood. He bared fangs in a sick parody of a smile and lunged, trying to dart around Sav, only to be held back as his friend’s strong arms grabbed and held him in place, drawing him close. Normally Joe would have pulled away because he wasn’t that way and neither was Sav—or so he hoped—but the animal inside was too strong. All he could feel at the moment was the heat of his bassist’s body; smell Sav’s unique scent . . . and then it was delicious pain coursing through him as his wolf leapt out from the shadows to dominate.

*

Sav instinctively tightened his hold on Joe as the change engulfed his friend. To be honest, this was the first time he’d actually seen Joe transform fully into the lupine state and, although it was horrifying, he couldn’t tear his gaze away. That is, until the rest of Def Leppard turned the corner and he heard Rick’s puzzled voice: “Sav, what are you doing?”

Joe, fully wolf now, growled from behind Sav’s leg and drew his lips back to expose yellowed fangs. Before Sav could grab him again the werewolf had darted out from behind him, narrowed bright blue eyes at Rick, and lunged.

“Joe, NO!” the bassist yelled, diving for the huge wolf. Was he crazy? Yeah, probably, but he also knew Joe would never forgive himself if he hurt Rick or any other members of the band. Sav hit Joe broadside and the wolf yelped in surprise as he was tackled to the floor. Yellow-green eyes glared accusingly at Sav, who tightened his hold in the thick golden pelt. The bassist hissed, “Come on, Elliott, get a grip. I know you’re in there, mate. You’re the alpha of this little pack, remember?” The words sounded strange coming off his tongue, but if they would help Joe, he didn’t care if he sounded like a nut. “Change back. Now.”

Gradually the accusing look in those bright greenish-yellow eyes faded and the big lupine stopped struggling. Sav released him and stepped back, and the werewolf padded out of sight.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Steve demanded.

Sav glanced over at his bandmates, who had frozen in place, faces pale. He’d almost forgotten they were there. “Uh, well, I’m probably not the best person to be telling you.”

“But you know what’s going on, don’t you?” Steve accused, eyes flashing. He calmed down a little when Phil lightly touched his arm, but not by much.

There was movement out the corner of Sav’s eye, and, turning, he saw it was Joe, human again. The band’s lead vocalist looked shaken, sick, and Sav’s heartstrings tugged. He wanted to comfort his friend, but didn’t want to do so with other eyes around.

Joe could feel Sav’s concerned gaze on him; and he, too, wanted the comfort his bass guitar player provided. Just not right now, not with three pairs of eyes watching him warily. His wolf was calmer now, but Joe could still feel the moonlight prickling his skin. He hated being so different from his friends when nights were like this, when his wolf side was stronger than his human side. It took him a while to meet the wary, cautious gazes of Rick and the Terror Twins, but when he did, all that came out was a hoarse, “I’ll talk to you later.”

They left, albeit reluctantly, and then it was just him and Sav standing there together in the moonlight. Joe’s gaze rested on Sav, who stepped forward, arms open, and said, “Come here, mate.”

Phosphorescent-green eyes smiled as a hint of the wolf came through, along with very human desire.


	2. Chapter 2

When he finally untangled himself from Sav’s embrace, Joe closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, hoping the smells of the night and his bassist’s familiar scent would help calm down his wolf. He could still feel the moonlight on his skin, and the itch, while it had faded, was still maddening. There were times he loved being a werewolf, but full moon nights were definitely _not_ one of them.

“You calm enough now?” Sav asked.

“I think so. C’mon, let’s find the others.”

“You have a lot of explaining to do,” Sav warned as he fell into step with Joe.

The alpha chuckled dryly. “Or at least three words: I’m a werewolf.”

“Oh, yeah, that’ll go over real well,” the bassist said sarcastically.

“Hey, you’re totally cool with it.” As they walked along, Joe saw Sav smile a little, and he found he kept leaning into his friend, almost as if he needed the contact . . . needed Sav. Startled by the thought, Joe slowed his pace and let the bassist take the lead to the dressing rooms. Soon after, he realized that was a mistake, since it gave him a full view of Sav’s leggy figure, the way those lean muscles knotted and rolled to create that loose-hipped stride. Again, Joe could feel his wolf rising, and his tongue swept across his chops before he could stop himself. Why was he thinking about Sav like this? Yes, the bassist helped calm down his wolf, so there was the possibility Sav was his anchor—something that kept him human when the moon was full and he was in his wolf form—but did he actually have _feelings_ for Rick Savage? No, definitely not . . . but he couldn’t deny that some part of him had enjoyed the feel of Sav’s body nestling against his own.

 _Stupid wolf,_ Joe thought irritably. _Can’t it decide what it wants?_ Unless it had already decided . . . but the lead vocalist refused to let his thoughts travel down that road.

He suddenly plowed into a mass of leather and hair as Sav stopped abruptly. The scent of Sav’s hairspray filled his nose, and Joe took a step back, gagging. He knew the man liked spray, but did he seriously have to use that much?

“You first,” Sav said, stepping aside to reveal that they were at the dressing room.

Joe shook his head. “No way.”

“It’s your problem,” Sav pointed out. “Besides, you’re the alpha, remember?”

Joe grumbled, “Why do I even put up with you?”

Sav grinned. “Easy. You all love me. Maybe it’s my charming personality.”

“It’s your charming something,” Joe muttered. Suddenly irritated with his best friend, he took a step forward—and found himself inside the dressing room looking at the apprehensive faces of the Terror Twins and the Thunder God.

Bloody hell was the first thought that came to mind, and he turned back to face Sav, who was leaning against the door with that very familiar smirk dancing on his lips. Joe’s eyes flared green-yellow and he curled his upper lip in a snarl, showing off sharp fangs. His bass guitar player gulped and fidgeted, but didn’t move. Joe had to give him credit for that, at least. That didn’t stop him from snarling irritably: “You planned that, didn’t you?”

“Yep,” Sav replied, moving away from the dressing room door so he was closer to the werewolf.

“So,” Phil said at last, tearing Joe’s attention away from the bass player, “what exactly was all that about earlier?” The blonde’s eyes were moving from Sav to Joe. “I’ve never seen a wolf backstage before.”

“And since when are you a wolf whisperer?” Steve asked Sav. The bushy-haired brunette bass player just looked down at his feet, suddenly very interested in his shoes.

“Since I turn on nights of the full moon,” Joe answered for Sav, holding Steve’s gaze steadily.

Rick actually took a step back. “Wait, what?”

“Well, I’m not exactly human,” Joe admitted.

“Then what are you?” Phil asked, eyes narrowed.

“Why don’t you see if you can figure it out?” Sav grumbled, lifting his head to glare at his bandmates. He moved even closer to Joe, and the werewolf leaned back against his friend’s chest. Sav’s familiar scent of hairspray, warm leather, and autumn bonfires filled his nose and it took all his control not to turn and sink his fangs into the skin on that delicious-looking throat. Joe thought, _What’s wrong with me? I’ve never thought about Sav like this before—unless it’s just the wolf. Yes, that must be it._ But just thinking about the bass guitarist anchored his human self when the full moon’s influence was too much and his wolf threatened to take full control. _I really don’t have time to figure this out right now._ And suddenly Joe didn’t want the others to know his secret. Everything had been perfectly fine with just Sav knowing about his lycanthropy, and he’d kicked Pete out because the rhythm guitarist had threatened to tell in the first place.

So, with his eyes trained on Phil the way they were, there was no way he could miss the lightbulb-going-off moment. Collen paled a little and ducked behind Steve, who looked at him with a puzzled expression, like, _WTF_. Phil just met his fellow Terror Twin’s gaze and said, “I think Joe _was_ the wolf.”

Rick let out a strained laugh. “You’re joking, right? There’s no way anyone can turn into a wolf. Have you guys been taking something?”

“No,” Phil and Joe said in unison.

Steve was slowly nodding, though. “It makes sense, the way you’ve been acting lately. And from what you said earlier . . .” He turned his attention from Joe to Sav. “How long have you known?”

Joe, as close as they were physically right now, felt Sav stiffen before the bassist said quietly, “Five years. I found out by accident.”

“And you never said anything?”

Sav opened his mouth, but Joe’s warning growl rumbled through the room. “Leave him out of this. If he hadn’t stopped me, the three of you might not be here. I was ready to _tear your throats out_ and howl in _victory_ at your _slaughter_. Besides, would you have believed either of us?”

Steve averted his gaze, and Joe noticed that neither Phil or Rick were meeting his eyes now. Clark muttered, “I guess not. Sorry, mate.”

A corner of Joe’s mouth hitched up in a weak attempt at a smile. “Yeah, well, blame the wolf that bit me. Now, are you all ready to leave? I want to get out of here already.”

His bandmates murmured agreement. Roughly thirty to forty-five minutes later, they were on the bus driving through the crowded streets of Colorado Springs. One of the guys, Joe couldn’t remember who, had suggested that they all go clubbing after dropping everything off at the hotel and they showered (there were no showers backstage). Naturally, the others agreed—all except the singer. He was aware of the full moon creeping higher and higher in the night sky. Once it reached its zenith . . . he’d transform again. His earlier metamorphosis had partly been of his own will and partly because he just let the wolf go. If the moon-madness took over and forced a shift while they were out in the clubs, he wasn’t sure if even Sav’s calming influence would work. Drugs didn’t help either: they spun his already-heightened senses out of control; besides, the wild animal that lurked beneath his skin loathed anything that did not leave it with utter confidence in itself and its abilities—challenged its authority. As for his position as leader, it was only natural considering he was among weak prey humans and that they looked to him because he was their dominant, their superior, _in every way._ Maybe that was the wolf talking, but that was okay, because Joe _liked_ the feeling.

The next thing he knew, Sav was shaking his shoulder, not unroughly. It jarred Joe out of his thoughts, and he looked at Sav quizzically. Sav just said, “We’re at the hotel, Joe.”

“’Kay,” he mumbled.

Sav shifted his weight like he was going to leave, then stopped and looked at Joe more closely. “Hey, are you okay? You look all pale and sweaty.”

“I’m fine,” Joe replied, rising from his seat on the bus.

Sav frowned. “You’re sure? You don’t have to come with us, you know.”

“I _am_ coming,” Joe growled. And that settled the matter.

*

An hour later, the guys were out on the streets in fresh clothes: torn-up jeans, nicer T-shirts than what they’d worn during the concert, and leather jackets, of course. It was warm for late October, but even so, there was a slight chill in the air.

Joe’s ears pricked up as he heard a thumping bass beat coming from a nearby building. He asked, “You guys hear that?”

“Yeah,” Sav replied, exchanging an excited look with Rick. Phil and Steve just gave each other mischievous winks. It was so obviously an inside gesture that Joe instantly found himself dreading what those two might end up getting into. Their infamous nickname of the “Terror Twins” sure suited them whether they were onstage or not. As they approached the club, Joe warned, “Be careful, you two. If I hear anything about you being arrested—”

“Relax, Joe,” Phil assured him. “We’re not going to do anything too crazy. Right, Steve?”

“Right,” Steve affirmed, dipping his head toward the singer. His fingers, Joe noticed absently, were tapping out a rhythm on his jean-clad thigh, maybe the intro to “Women” or “Armageddon It.” No, definitely “Women.” The lycanthrope rolled his eyes and joined the crowd of teenagers and young adults waiting to enter the club. His mates followed, and of course, several of the girls were staring and whispering to their companions. With his heightened hearing, it was easy to hear what they were saying—some of it definitely X-rated. Joe snuck a quick glance at his watch and saw it was eleven o’clock. Just one more hour and . . . His stomach clenched painfully at the thought.

Then he realized the bouncer was looking at him expectantly. Joe forced a smile and said, “I don’t suppose you’d let us in, would you?”

The well-muscled, black-clad man rolled his eyes and waved them on in. Quite a few teenage girls tried to follow but the bouncer moved in front of the door, cutting them off from the band. Joe could hear several voices raised in complaining tones, and he smiled a little. The smile quickly turned into a scowl when he realized the DJ was playing “Pour Some Sugar on Me” over the speakers at an ear-shattering volume. Well, maybe not to the humans, but what with the full moon’s influence . . . He shook off the thought and muttered, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Huh?” Phil asked.

“They’re playing ‘Sugar’,” Joe informed him.

“Oh.” Phil shrugged and tugged at Steve’s jacket. “C’mon, Steve, let’s go!”

Joe was pretty sure he caught sight of a grin on Steve’s face before the Terror Twins were lost in the crowd. Rick ambled off as well; then it was just Joe and Sav—again.

Sav looked over at Joe, a smile dancing on his lips. He said, “Well, what did you expect when we recorded this song?”

Joe just shrugged. He didn’t have an answer, and he suspected Sav wasn’t looking for one. Hoping to distract himself from the rising fever, Joe said, “I hope Steve and Phil aren’t in too much trouble.”

“Relax, would you? They’ll be fine,” Sav assured him. “Now, come on. We look miserable just standing here.” The bassist began to make his way through the sea of dancing bodies, and Joe, not wanting Sav to leave his sight, followed. He needed the calming effect of the anchor. As much as he hated to admit it, the bass player was his anchor . . . and maybe something more than a friend. Besides, the area on his side where he’d been bitten long ago, even though it had healed, itched like someone had sewn a live moth underneath his skin. His whole body felt like that, actually.

Sav tensed as he felt Joe’s presence behind him: the singer was way closer than he should be. Then he relaxed when the wolf dropped his hand from his shoulder. “Sorry,” Joe said, leaning in close, his warm breath caressing the skin on Sav’s neck. “The moon, my wolf . . .”

“Just try to relax and loosen up a bit,” Sav suggested, turning around so he was facing Joe. “We’re at a club, after all.”

Joe’s voice dropped to a low, edgy growl, and Sav saw budding canines. “I can’t.”

“Relax or have fun?”

“Both.”

“Phil and Steve don’t have any problems.”

“They’re Phil and Steve. What do you expect? Besides, they’re not werewolves.”

“True. Y’know, I think those girls over there are eyeing you.”

Joe followed Sav’s index finger with his eyes. His gaze landed on two pretty brunettes wearing clothes that exposed their midriffs and maybe a little too much thigh—leaving something to the imagination, he supposed. The lupine said in Sav’s ear: “I hope they don’t recognize us.”

Sav just rolled his eyes and headed over, dragging Joe behind him. (The singer was too taken by surprise to protest.) Def Leppard’s bass player said smoothly, “Mind if we dance?”

“Pour Some Sugar on Me” changed to Foreigner’s “Hot Blooded” as one of the brunettes flashed a flirtatious smile at Sav and took the extended hand. The two were soon in what looked to Joe like a dance-off a few feet away from Joe and the other girl.

After a few songs had gone by, Joe’s dancing partner asked, “Do I know you? You and your friend look familiar.”

“We’re in a band; just finished a gig.” Joe tried to sound nonchalant, but the itch under his skin was intensifying and he was growing restless. His wolf’s predator instincts were emerging as well.

 _Where’s Sav?_ The werewolf cast his eyes around him, searching for the bass player. He also breathed in discreetly, tasting the air for Sav’s scent. Once he located his bandmate, he moved away from the girl—who didn’t seem to notice that he was on the move—and headed toward Sav. When he was right behind his friend, he tapped the bassist on the shoulder with a fingernail that was already longer than normal. Sav glanced over his shoulder, saw it was just Joe, and excused himself. The brunette looked disappointed, but her expression soon faded as another good-looking guy came up from behind, his hands already exploring. Both Sav and Joe curled their upper lip in disgust before turning away.

They managed to make it into a dark corner, one of Sav’s hands resting on Joe’s back between his shoulder blades. Fingers calloused from years of guitar playing were surprisingly gentle as they grazed the back of Joe’s neck underneath his long, thick blonde hair. The singer’s head was bent forward, mouth open, breathing labored, and Sav could see the glint of dagger-sharp fangs when Joe looked at him over his shoulder. Sav hissed, “Hold it together until we’re outside, Joe. If you shift in here . . .”

“I know.” Joe’s voice was little more than a feral growl ripping from deep in his throat. He started making his way to the back doors of the club, Sav right beside him. As they hurried along, Joe felt as if his bones were filled with lava instead of marrow. His green eyes had turned a searing yellow, glowing like beacons in the darkness. Claws were already spouting from his fingertips; his ears reshaped, growing pointed, slowly traveling up the sides of his head.

“Joe, no!” he heard Sav hiss. The bassist’s fingers dug into his shoulder. “We’re almost there. Just a few more feet, mate. Oh, where are the others?”

“Does it matter? Besides, I think they’re scared of me.”

By now, they had made it through the back door and were standing in an alley—one that was bathed in moonlight. The full moon was directly overhead, and with a quick glance at his wristwatch, Joe saw it was almost midnight. Had they been inside for an hour already? It sure didn’t feel like it.

He doubled over, groaning, as molten fire poured through his whole body. Sav crouched beside him, his hands uncertain as they moved over Joe’s back, as if he wasn’t sure where to rest them. He asked, “What can I do to help?”

“Nothing,” Joe rasped. “Sav, if I bite you when I’m a wolf . . .”

“I don’t want it.” Did all werewolves think they were hot stuff?

“If the bite doesn’t turn you, it’ll kill you,” Joe warned, wincing as the transformation slowly progressed. “Sav, clothes. Off. Now.” Joe was already shucking off his jacket, but his misshapen hands fumbled with his shirt. His hands and feet were morphing into paws, making it impossible to remove any other layers of clothing. And there was no way he could stop the transformation even if he wanted to do so. The moon called all the shots this time.

He could sense Sav’s hesitation; then cool hands were pulling his shirt up over his head. The cool touch was a welcome relief for his burning body.

“Blimey, Joe,” Sav muttered. “Are you always this hot?”

For some reason the question made Joe want to laugh; however, he was now incapable of making any human sounds, as his mouth and nose began to push out into a muzzle. Coarse fur wormed its way out of the pores in his skin, covering his body; his jeans ripped as his muscles acquired lupine strength; bones cracked as they reshaped to form the skeleton of a wolf. All that was left was the tail, which soon made its appearance.

Metamorphosis complete, Joe twisted around and snapped at the tattered remains of his jeans. They stubbornly remained on, refusing to fall away like his human form had, and his gaze landed on Sav. Before he could stop himself, his tongue swept across his muzzle and, crouching low, he stalked toward his friend. A nervous, almost frightened look flitted over Sav’s face and he backed up until he hit the brick wall of the club.

“Joe, please.” Sav’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Don’t.” He drew in a shaky breath as the werewolf eyed him coolly, hunger—and something else—in those glowing not-quite-human yellow-green eyes.

Somewhere within the wolf’s body, Joe’s human self recognized the pleading tone. The subtle fear-scent was taunting his wolf, and somehow, that made Sav all the more appealing. He could tell Sav just wanted to submit—as he very well should—but was his friend scared for himself or for Joe, caught up as he was in the werewolf’s instincts and moon-madness?

Saliva pooled in Joe’s mouth as his eyes took in Sav’s trembling form, the rapid throbbing of his pulse at his throat. That human heartbeat would taste so bittersweet . . .

“Joe, come on, mate. You know you don’t want to hurt me.” The bass guitarist’s voice was still a whisper, but now it had a pleading, almost desperate tone. There was terror there too, and it was that more than anything else that snapped Joe’s wolf instincts and brought his human mind out from under the moon-fever.

Sav tensed when the lupine before him suddenly halted, a shudder running through its body. Then a very familiar voice said, <Sav?> That was _Joe’s_ voice . . . but Sav was hearing it _inside his head_. Not wanting to believe it, he breathed, “Joe? Please tell me I’m not off my rocker.”

<No, you're not.> There was a hint of dry humor in the werewolf’s thought-speak voice. <And before you ask, yes, I've always been able to use thought-speak, but it only works when I'm morphed. And I can choose who to send it to. There are limits just like normal speaking too. Besides, considering I'm a mythological monster . . .> He shrugged, a gesture that looked very weird on a wolf. <What did you expect?>

“Something that’s not out of an episode of _The Twilight Zone_ ,” Sav snapped. Fear was slowly being overtaken by anger. “You were about to _eat me_!”

The anger in Sav’s voice was aggravating Joe’s wolf aggression. The lupine growled, his teeth suddenly looking deadly sharp. <How many times have I told you it’s difficult to fight the full moon? And in case you hadn't noticed, Sav>—his mental voice had turned sarcastic and bitter—<my _life_ is something out of a _Twilight Zone_ episode. >

“Just change back.” Neither of them had counted on the break in Sav’s voice. For the first time, both Joe and his wolf sensed something vulnerable in the bass player. The animal in the singer, being an alpha, seemed almost amused. _Of course_ , it seemed to say. _He_ should _be scared of us. It’s only right._ When Joe protested, saying that this was _Sav_ , their packmate, it only gave a low growl, almost as if it was laughing. This _is what an alpha can do_ , it told Joe’s human side as it reached out toward Sav, imposing its will on the bassist, forcing him to slide down the wall. The next thing Joe knew, he was shifting back into human form: lupine strength melted away from marrow and muscle; fur shriveled back into his pores; his spine and pelvis cracked as they adjusted to an upright position; his vision—which was ten times better and had a slight reddish tint in lupine form—returned to normal, or as normal as it was in his human form. When he finished, his jeans were little more than cutoff shorts and his shoes and socks had been shredded. Sav wordlessly handed him his shirt and jacket, clearly uncomfortable.

Without quite knowing what he was doing, Joe crouched beside Sav, his right hand brushing the mass of brown curls back over Sav’s shoulder, exposing the man’s neck.

“What are you doing?”

Sav heard the words leave his mouth, but all he could think about was how close Joe was—how close he’d come to either killing him or turning him—and the heat of the singer’s body. His pulse sped up and his breath hitched in his throat when the werewolf leaned in even closer, inhaled his scent. It took all he had not to . . .

To . . . submit.

Joe had always had that effect on him, he suspected. Def Leppard (then called Atomic Mass) had originally been Sav’s band, but when Joe was let into the group, he’d taken control almost effortlessly—because of his more bestial nature, probably. The thing was, though, that Sav actually kind of liked the feeling. He was perfectly content just to let Joe take over, because he was the alpha of their little pack and it was his job.

That was another problem. Since when did “Joe’s the alpha and, apparently, the rest of us are submissive” turn into “Joe’s _my_ dominant and _I’m_ submissive and that’s _good_ ”? It did at some point; Sav wasn’t exactly sure when, but right now, none of that mattered. He tilted his head to the side, offering a little more of his throat. Briefly Sav thought, _What in Hades am I doing?_ Then the thought was swept aside, because, really, he felt . . . comfortable in this current position.

“Just trust me,” Joe whispered, a hint of a growl in his voice. It was clear to Sav that the moon was affecting the vocalist—and yeah, maybe it was affecting him, too. And Sav was so screwed, because he didn’t want it any other way. Not the bite, but just the feeling that _this_ was so _right_ , being so close to Joe, his warm breath wafting across his neck. Then he felt icy coldness as the werewolf pressed his fangs to the skin on Sav’s throat. They just rested there, not breaking the skin, not even trying to go deeper.

“Joe, what—”

The low growl cut him off. “Do you have any idea what you do to us?” One of Joe’s hands fisted tightly in Sav’s hair, and the bassist gasped. “Because when you’re like this, you’re one of the most beautiful things we’ve ever seen.” His fangs traced the outline of Sav’s pulse, and he tensed.

“Relax. I’m not going to turn you.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“If another wolf or alpha tries to take you, they won’t be able to make you part of their pack. You’re _mine_ , Sav.” With that, Joe’s fangs sank into Sav’s neck, deep enough to draw blood, deep enough to mark.

Sav gasped with pain, wanting to throw Joe off, but not doing anything, all the while fighting the urge to encourage the bite to go deeper, to lean into his alpha. That just wasn’t something he was comfortable with. The whole scene felt surreal, actually, like something out of a werewolf movie or _Twilight Zone_ episode. Then again, Joe _was_ a lycanthrope and they _had_ been making comparisons to the Rod Sterling television series only a couple minutes ago.

Joe’s head lifted from Sav’s neck, and he watched as the skin knit itself back together. A very-confused Sav wiped at his neck, catching any lingering traces of red. “What—?”

“Werewolves have miraculous healing properties. That’s not the point. The point is you belong to _me_. My friend, my beta, _my pack_.”

Before Sav could say anything to that, Joe caught a familiar scent and whipped his head toward the door of the club, a warning growl rumbling in his chest. The door opened anyway and out spilled Phil and Steve, laughing about something that made sense only to them. Both of them froze when they heard the low growl and glanced down at Joe and Sav, noticing just how close the two were.

“We didn’t interrupt anything, did we?” Phil asked, mouth twitching as he fought back a grin.

“You’re one to talk,” Joe snarled, flashing fangs red with Sav’s blood. Both Terror Twins gulped at the sight of bloodstained teeth and promptly turned back to the door. It wasn’t long before they were back in the club, and this time, the music was Pat Benatar’s “Shadows of the Night.”

Sav looked over at Joe. “I don’t suppose you want to explain this to them, do you?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought. Now help me up, let’s find the others, and try to enjoy what’s left of the night. And please, no more wolf stuff.”

Def Leppard’s lead singer grinned roguishly. “I thought you handled that pretty well.”

“Whatever you say . . . alpha.” Sav pulled open the door, and once again they were part of the club’s party atmosphere. Before they went their separate ways, Joe leaned over and warned, “If you start singing ‘Can’t Fight This Feeling’, I just might be tempted to tear out your throat.”

“So noted. Now shut up and dance.” Sav smirked. It wavered, then faded at the odd, predatory gleam in Joe’s eyes. “Uh, Joe?”

The werewolf smiled—with no fangs in sight; Sav found himself wishing there were, so that infamous dimpled smile would give people something to fear—and quoted a line from a 1984 movie: “You gotta cut loose, footloose—”

“I get it. Just don’t start singing Poison anytime soon.”

Joe pulled a face. “Why would I? Bloody copycats.”

Sav laughed at that. Joe felt his entire body relax. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds around him, and just let the music—and Sav’s closeness—take him away. **  
**


	3. Chapter 3

The blissful moment, was, unfortunately, short-lived. Joe’s eyes snapped open as a girl shrieked, “OH MY GOD! It’s Joe and Sav from Def Leppard!”

The lupine’s eyes flew to Sav’s and saw his own horror reflected there. “Run?” he suggested.

“Run,” Sav agreed.

Together they moved as fast as they could through the crowd, searching for the rest of the band. The mob parted like the Red Sea, although both bassist and singer accidentally knocked into a few people. Sav spun around, eyes scanning, before he groaned in frustration. “Honestly, how hard is it to find a one-armed drummer in here?”

“At the rate we’re going, I’d say very,” Joe replied, dodging around a couple completely oblivious to the famous musicians.

“Can’t you sniff ’em out or something?” Sav asked, ducking to avoid being kicked in the head by a scantily-clad pole-dancer. (Okay, the politically correct term was probably “stripper”, but Joe could care less.)

“Maybe, but with all these scents . . .” Joe shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what?” came Rick’s familiar voice from behind Joe, who whirled around to see that his drummer looked okay—a little flushed, maybe, but otherwise perfectly fine.

“Uh, forget it. Have you seen Phil or Steve anywhere?”

Rick thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “No. Why?”

“We’ve been compromised.”

“In English, Joe.”

“Someone recognized me and Sav, and now a bunch of teenage girls are probably looking for us.”

The look on Rick’s face was one that said, quite clearly, Oh crap. “Okay, let’s leave.”

“Not without the Terror Twins,” Joe reminded him. _Now, where are they? Last I saw, they were with me and Sav. I can probably track their scent . . ._ Discreetly, he breathed in deeply, turning his head, trying to locate the Terror Twins’ scent. Since he practically lived with the band while they were on tour, he knew each member’s particular smell by heart. Once he caught it, he moved quickly through the crowd, Sav and Rick breaking into a jog to keep up. Phil and Steve hadn’t really moved from where they’d entered with Joe and Sav after encountering them in the alley.

“Hey, Rick, Joe, Sav,” Phil greeted them. “What’s up?”

Joe had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “We have to leave. Now.” He was feeling edgy again, although whether that was because of his wolf or the fear of being swarmed by teenage girls, he had no idea.

Phil’s eyes went dark with suspicion. “What did you do, Joe?”

The singer bristled. “Nothing! Of course, unless you want to be run over by rabid fangirls—”

“Good point.” The suspicion in Phil’s eyes vanished. “Back door?”

“Back door,” Joe confirmed. “Move it.”

An excited, high-pitched shriek followed by “Is that seriously Def Leppard?!” forced the band to double their efforts. It wasn’t long before all five members spilled out into the alley where Joe had transformed not ten minutes before, sprawling in a heap on the ground with Phil on top of Steve and Joe tangled with Sav. Somehow, only Rick managed to regain his balance, stopping him from going the same way as his mates.

“Hey, Joe, I think you can get off me,” Sav said, his voice muffled.

“I second that,” came Steve’s voice from underneath Phil.

Both Joe and Phil rolled off Sav and Steve, respectively, and helped them up. The lupine said, “We might as well head back to the hotel. We have another concert tomorrow, remember.”

Rick, Phil, and Steve took the lead, while Joe dropped back to walk with Sav.

“So, Joe,” Sav began hesitantly, “about earlier . . .”

“What?” Joe stopped walking and looked at his bass player, his beta in their strange pack of four humans and one lupine.

“What exactly did you do to me?”

“I didn’t turn you if that’s what you’re thinking. One of us has to be in wolf form for the bite to turn a human, and even then there are silverbloods.”

“Huh?”

“Someone who won’t turn.”

“But you said if the bite didn’t turn me, it would kill me.”

“Silverbloods are the exception.” Joe shivered as a chill raced up and down his spine. He was feeling feverish again, the darkness in him itching to be released so it could feed. “Do you want your original question answered or not?”

Sav opened his mouth to reply, but shut it when a voice nearby hissed out of the darkness: “Hey, over here.”

The two Leppards looked down the shadowed service road. Sav cocked an eyebrow at Joe, who shrugged and headed down the dark path with his beta on his five.

Joe froze when a hand clapped over his mouth and a low voice ordered, “Give us everything you have on you without any noise or your friend over here gets it.”

Pale-green eyes flitted over to Sav and narrowed in fury: The bassist was stock-still, a knife held against his throat, the man behind him way too close.

 _“Muggers! Are you fucking kidding me?”_ Joe’s voice was an irritated, disbelieving snarl.

The guy holding Joe frowned in confusion. “Huh?” Clearly, that was not the reaction they were expecting.

“We don’t have any money,” Sav said, swallowing nervously. “’Sides, you don’t want to piss Joe off.” Maybe it was result of Joe’s bite, but he could feel the singer’s rising anger. He stiffened and fell silent when the blade pressed harder against the soft skin of his throat.

“And why is that?” the guy with the knife asked, his voice dangerously silky.

Rage was tinting Joe’s vision red. Both he and his wolf were in agreement on one thing: No one hurt Sav—or the other Leppards, but mostly Sav—and got away with it. He bit down hard on the hand covering his mouth, pleased when the man released a yelp and dropped his hand, swearing black and blue, even using some words Joe was pretty sure he made up on the spot. The hand balled into a fist, socked him in the stomach, and Joe went with the pain, dropping onto all fours. Saliva mixed with the tang of blood in the back of his throat. The thugs no longer scared him.

They made him hungry.

Dark laughter echoed around him as he watched his nails turn into claws, saw the wiry hairs push their way out of his skin.

“Whoa. Who _is_ this freak?” Sav’s captor asked.

Sav shrugged. “Oh, just the singer in a little band called Def Leppard. And it looks like you’ve made him _very_ angry. Then again, you Americans have a habit of doing that.”

The changing was quicker and easier than last time. Joe shucked off the last vestiges of his human form and released a bone-chilling howl. His glowing yellow-green eyes locked on the man holding the blade to Sav’s throat and he bared his fangs, a low growl rumbling from deep in his chest.

The men screamed, but not for long.

*

Sav could only watch in a kind of horrified fascination as the blond werewolf turned on their attackers. Claws slashed deep, bloody gashes in chests; jaws that could crack a moose’s skull easily bruised a human throat. The muggers were still breathing: Joe’s ’wolf wasn’t a killer, because Joe Elliott wasn’t a killer. He might have a temper, but as far as Sav knew, Joe had never killed anyone while acting out.

The werewolf raised his head from one of the muggers’ bodies and padded over to Sav. A soft whine rose in his throat, and he pushed his silken head under Sav’s hand. It wasn’t long before Sav was scratching behind Joe’s ears and the ’wolf’s eyes were slitted in pleasure. Of course, if Joe was in human form right now, Sav highly doubted he would be doing this.

<That feels good, Sav. Just a little harder, more to the left . . .> Joe’s thought-speak voice was embedded with a satisfied purr. The ’wolf’s head tilted to the head, following Sav’s hand, and he finally shook himself briskly. <I needed that.>

“The fight or the scratch?”

<Both.> Joe stiffened and swiveled his ears toward the opening of the service road. <Someone’s coming.> Stiff-legged, hackles raised, the werewolf stepped protectively in front of Sav, ignoring the withering glare from the bassist scorching into his fur.

“Sav? Joe? Are you guys all right?”

The lupine relaxed his fighting stance as the rest of the band came around the corner. It was Steve who had called out, his words already slurred. (Joe wondered briefly how much the man had had to drink.)

“We heard a scream. Are you guys okay?” That was Phil, who stepped up next to Steve. The rhythm guitarist paused when he saw the huge wolf crouched in front of Sav, then the still forms of the attempted muggers. “Well, that explains why they suddenly stopped.” He shot an accusatory look at Joe. “You didn’t kill them, did you?”

The lycanthrope gave an indignant snort. Phil didn’t need a translator to guess what it meant: _Oh, please. I have more restraint than what you give me credit for._

“No, he didn’t,” Sav said. “They’re still breathing. Besides, Joe’s wolf is not a killer because _Joe_ isn’t a cold-blooded killer.”

<You’ve got that right,> Joe said, sending the thought only to Sav. Now that the threat of danger had passed, his human self would begin to regain dominance over the wolf. Already he could feel lupine strength bleeding away from marrow and muscle. It was only a matter of seconds before he was human again—and naked.

Sav quickly stripped one of the unconscious men of jeans and shirt and handed the clothes to Joe, who kept his back to the others while he dressed.

“Anyone else ready to hit the sack?” he asked when he was finished, turning back to the rest of the band. “I’m beat.”

Yes, he was tired, but it wasn’t because of the shifting. Having to control his wolf, then his inner turmoil over his feelings for Sav, not to mention the fact it was half past midnight, was draining him. And since they were touring with Bon Jovi and had another concert tomorrow, it was best they all received at least a few hours of sleep.

*

Joe tossed and turned restlessly in the hotel bed. Try as hard as he might, he just couldn’t sleep. He felt sweaty, clammy, as if he was running a fever—but the full moon always had that effect on him.

“Joe?” Sav’s voice whispered through the darkness. Shadows shifted, then condensed to form the bassist’s familiar profile. A twitch ran through the lupine, causing his legs to jerk restlessly when he realized just how close Sav was to the edge of his bed.

“What are you—”

“Relax. You can’t sleep, right?” Sav didn’t wait for an answer. “So I might as well keep you company until you do.”

 _Oh. Okay,_ Joe thought groggily. The moon, bright and fat, was clouding his thinking, making it hard to focus on anything.

It was also making him drowsy.

He wasn’t sure how long Sav sat on the edge of his bed, but as sleep finally claimed him, he thought he felt long, calloused fingers lightly brush across his forehead and the mass of blond curls.

Then Sav was gone and he knew nothing more.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter in this story. Then I'm going to start on the second story in this series. Anything you might want to see in that, just let me know. I'm thinking of bringing in Bon Jovi, since in this, Def Leppard is on tour with them . . . Oh, all the plot bunnies. :)


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